Poetry

My mother died on Shavuot, at the end of
the Counting of the Omer.
Her oldest brother died in 1916; he fell in the war.

In the night shop’s Gothic theater,
where unstrung carcasses of violins
and cellos are laid out on tables

There drifts the sky again,
Here, a single thought crawls slow as a flea.

There was a burst
of static
on radios
all over the city